“The future is necessarily monstrous: the figure of the future, that is, that which can only be surprising, that for which we are not prepared... is heralded by species of monsters. A future that would not be monstrous would not be a future; it would already be a predictable, calculable, and programmable tomorrow. All experience open to the future is prepared or prepares itself to welcome the monstrous arrivant.”[i]
“And I like how the guru on the towel dispenser doesn't laugh at them, or even shake his head sagely on its big brown neck. He just smiles, hiding his tongue. He's like a baby. Everything he sees hits him and sinks without bubbles. He just sits there. I want to be like that. Able to sit all quiet and pull life toward me, one forehead at a time. His name is supposedly Lyle.”[ii]
[i] Nicholas Royle. Jacques Derrida. London: Routledge. 2003, p. 110
[ii] David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest, Back Bay Books. New York: 1996. p.128
[iii] The house I grew up in had a very compelling dark upstairs window, made more so by that fact that as far as I knew our house had no upstairs. Typical conversation between my parents and me about this window:
Jessie (circa age 8): Where does that window go?
Parent: That’s just the attic.
Jessie: We have an attic!!?!
Parent: It’s not really an attic.
Jessie: Can I go up there?
Parent: Absolutely not.
Jessie: How do you get up there?
Parent: You don’t, so stop thinking about it and stop asking about it.
My interpretation of this conversation:
The attic contains a unthinkable family secret, or the attic is/is a portal to another dimension/world/time as in the wardrobe in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe or the police call box in Doctor Who, or a mysterious, crazy and possibly dangerous person lives up there, either a relative or someone who was there before we moved in (explaining the shadow I sometimes thought I saw up there and the spooky feeling I got when I looked up, that someone was looking back at me.)
“And I like how the guru on the towel dispenser doesn't laugh at them, or even shake his head sagely on its big brown neck. He just smiles, hiding his tongue. He's like a baby. Everything he sees hits him and sinks without bubbles. He just sits there. I want to be like that. Able to sit all quiet and pull life toward me, one forehead at a time. His name is supposedly Lyle.”[ii]
[i] Nicholas Royle. Jacques Derrida. London: Routledge. 2003, p. 110
[ii] David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest, Back Bay Books. New York: 1996. p.128
[iii] The house I grew up in had a very compelling dark upstairs window, made more so by that fact that as far as I knew our house had no upstairs. Typical conversation between my parents and me about this window:
Jessie (circa age 8): Where does that window go?
Parent: That’s just the attic.
Jessie: We have an attic!!?!
Parent: It’s not really an attic.
Jessie: Can I go up there?
Parent: Absolutely not.
Jessie: How do you get up there?
Parent: You don’t, so stop thinking about it and stop asking about it.
My interpretation of this conversation:
The attic contains a unthinkable family secret, or the attic is/is a portal to another dimension/world/time as in the wardrobe in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe or the police call box in Doctor Who, or a mysterious, crazy and possibly dangerous person lives up there, either a relative or someone who was there before we moved in (explaining the shadow I sometimes thought I saw up there and the spooky feeling I got when I looked up, that someone was looking back at me.)